


An Evening's Entertainment

by JuniperGreen



Series: I Never Promised You an Open Heart or Charity [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Frottage, Guns, Knife Play, M/M, Plot What Plot, S&M, Sadomasochism, boys and their toys basically, dub-con, mormor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 16:07:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7112878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuniperGreen/pseuds/JuniperGreen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian's bored. A slim stranger with intense eyes might offer some distraction. It doesn't go down as planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Evening's Entertainment

**Author's Note:**

> MorMor oneshot.
> 
> I got overly inspired by a prompt a developed for a writing event and had to write something myself. It didn't go exactly as imagined - just like Sebastian's night, I guess.
> 
> That's my first one here and my first fic in English.  
> It's completely un-beta'd and still pretty first-drafty.  
> Be gentle, please :) Constructive critiscm is always welcome.

Even for a Monday night the pub was empty. It was a dive, really, a gathering place for the lowest scum of London, but one of the few places where a bloke could carry his rifle without being stared at. Not that there were a lot of people to stare to begin with. Scrawny fellow at a table in the corner, two ruffians well into their cups, and Bill, the bartender, who looked about as bored as I felt. “'nother one, Bill?” I pointed to my pint. Bill seemed grateful for the short distraction and went to work. Not a very chatty fellow, uncommon in a bartender, but one of the reasons why I kept coming to this place. Can't see any sense in exchanging stories or bloating about business, given my line of work. A dive it was, but a quiet place to bring my Bonnie, faithful rifle now leaning against the bar; my gun, the only one I trust, the only one who'd never let me down, who's seen more than most men will in all their lives.

As much as I cherished the quiet, tonight I was restless. It had been more than a week since my last job, and that hadn't gone very well. Since then, nothing. Nothing to do, nothing to occupy me, nada. That could just mean that something great was brewing up. Great and no good.  
Bill interrupted my brooding and set a new pint before me with a grunt and a small nod. I grunted back my thanks. Pisswarm, the beer. Well, can't always be champaign, right? Don't like the bubbly stuff anyway.

Drinking beer just occupies your hands for so long, and I had to do something to alleviate the restlessness. I took out my knives. Black-handled hunting-knife and the slimmer, slightly curved boning-knife. Resting the hunting-knife on the bar, I began rubbing invisible spots from the other blade. Wicked sharp, both of them. Many a man -– and many a cat –- had already made their acquaintance. Some of them hadn't lived long enough to ever know what cut them. They weren't my faithful Bonnie, but more practical in a close fight.

Mid-polishing, I felt a prickling in my neck. This familiar prickling of being stared at. I glanced around – and sure as fuck caught the scrawny chap at the table staring. Not even hiding it. On a second glance I noticed he wasn't ogling me. His eyes were fixed on my knife. I kept polishing the blade but permitted myself a closer look. Small bloke, slim. Dark hair. Dark eyes, gleaming in the dim light of the pub, even at this distance. Wearing a bloody _suit_ , no less. Quite expensive looking as well, this piece of fabric, as much as I could tell in the dimness. Bloke caught me looking at him looking at me and finally glanced up at my face. Small smirk playing on his lips. An invitation. Oh bloody hell, with nothing better to do I might as well...

I stashed one knife, took the other and Bonnie in my hands and put my second-best smile in place. Went over to the fellow and raised an eyebrow: In for a challenge?  
“That's a pretty big gun you are carrying there.”  
I huffed out a laugh. “That's some pretty shitty innuendo you've got there.”  
The smirk broadened into a grin. “Fair enough. Please, take a sit.”  
Irish lilt. Eyes even darker from this near, almost black. Intense. This could be interesting.  
Leaning Bonnie on the table, I sat opposite the man, displaying the knife on the tabletop. Sure enough, his dark eyes went down to it. “See something you like?”  
“This is some beautiful specimen. You keep your equipment in good shape, I see.”  
I couldn't help rolling my eyes. “Better than your double entendres, at least.” That earned me no reaction at all. “What does a bloke with an attire as expensive as yours do in a dive like this anyway?”  
“You got an eye for quality,” he said, evading.  
“Slumming?” I tried.  
“Charming assumption. Believe it, if you must. What's your business here?”  
Ignoring the question, I moved my index-finger along the blade before me. His eyes followed the movement. A pink tongue darted out between his lips, cobra-quick.  
He glanced up at me. “Would you care to change the location?” His voice was soft, with an odd sing-song quality to it. Not unpleasant, though.  
“Fast one, aren't you?”  
“The world doesn't reward hesitant men. You should have learned by now.”  
Before I could ask what he meant by that, he put some coins on the table, got up and left, not even looking back. Bloody sod. Throwing my share on the table as well, giving a short nod to Bill, I grabbed rifle and knives and went after him.

…

Running around with a sniper rifle across your back isn't exactly unassuming, not even in this part of London, but not many people were up and about at this hour, in the constant drizzle. Ignoring me all the way, the bloke let me to a small hotel two blocks up the street. Non-descriptive house, neither cheap nor expensive, unassuming. Sparing no word for the receptionist he went up the stairs. Said receptionists didn't seem to mind my carrying a rifle into her establishment, didn't even seem to see me. So much the better. If the fellow liked the the knives as much as he let on, it was probably for the best if no-one got too good a look at my face.  
Breaking that pale, tender skin with with polished steel, seeing the blood well -– the thought got me exited and I felt the first stirring in my pants. He wouldn't scream too loud and alarm unsuspecting tenants, would he? Well, I could always gag him with his bloody tie. Gag him, tie him up, and let the blade play along his breast, his stomach, deeper, deeper, along his tights and up again, until finally...

He'd opened a door at the second storey, not turning on the lights. I followed -– and found myself face to face with the barrel of a gun. “Uh...” Smart, Basher, really smart. Walked right into it. Damned, I should know better.  
It was a small revolver, glinting viscously in the light coming through the rooms sole window. Its wielder, a slim silhouette in the twilight, reached around me and closed the door. I found my voice again. “What the fuck?” Okay, my wits were still off to Panama. Something in the beer? No, not possible, I hadn't taken it to his table.  
Unsurprisingly, the small bloke wasn't much intimidated by my croaking. “Put your rifle on the floor, please, if you don't mind.”  
I did mind, but I didn't feel much like arguing. Bonnie was no good at that close range, anyway. He slid the rifle into a corner on the far wall.  
“Very good. I see you are a smart man. Give me your knives next, please.”  
I took them out, slowly, considering. He must have seen my thoughts in my face.  
“I wouldn't try this, if I were you,” he sing-songed. “Please don't prove yourself to be stupid after all.”  
Well, I did walk stupidly into this set-up. Really not my best moment. Frustrated, I shook my head and handed him the knives. He stuck them in his belt, one after the other. The revolver never quivered. “Now undress.”  
What?  
He pressed the revolver harder against my forehead. That was going completely the wrong way round! Bloody son of a bitch of a scrawny fucker, I had at least one foot and a few scones upon him, I should just break his arm, his neck, and be done with it. But he was getting impatient.  
“Co-ome on, I am waiting here. And don't plan any smart moves. Brute force will not help you against a bullet in your head. Believe me if I tell you that I am much faster than you. Undress. -- Pluuu-eeese?” he added in a mock-pleading tone.  
I did, took off my shirt and undershirt and wriggled out off my shoes, still staring into his revolver. His eyes roamed my chest, followed the pattern of scars, courtesy of one particular viscous cat. And one particular viscous Persian courtesan. Don't know which one was the greater beast. None of them survived, anyway.  
“Beautiful,” he whispered.  
Perverted fuck! I was going to make him pay. Make him pay as soon as I got my hands on my knives again.

Currently my hands were busy with my fly. But later, later I would flay him, I would skin him, I would make him scream, let him scream, fuck the neighbours. The fantasy sent a rush of blood downwards as I shed my trousers and pants, leaving me standing naked and embarrassingly erect.  
“Having some entertaining thoughts?” That goddamn smirk. I would wipe it from his face, cut it out and wear it as a necklace! “Oh, don't be such a brute. Socks, too.”  
I obeyed. The smirk broadened again. He lifted the revolver from my face and trailed it lightly over my body, over the scars. Rubbed the cold metal against my erection, making me shiver. From the cold, I told myself. His dark eyes didn't leave mine. Didn't blink. I swallowed, mouth suddenly dry.

Abruptly he stepped back. “So, how do you like it?”  
Huh? “Like what?”  
He raised a carefully coiffed eyebrow. “Fucking. Buggering. Making looo-oove.” Letting his hands flutter with the exaggerated O.  
“What? What kind of a freak are you? You think I'll fuck you now?”  
“Well, what were you thinking I were up to? Murdering you and stealing your clothes? Not my style. The clothes, I mean. Not my size, either. Or did you think I'd _rape_ you?”  
Unbelievable. “You were shoving a gun into my face, what am I supposed to think?”  
“Oh, that's not even loaded. See?” He put the revolver into his mouth and pulled the trigger. Klick. Nothing. “Not loaded!”  
Madman. Fucking lunatic. I had enough. I turned to go.  
Wait, clothes. My knives. The rifle.  
“Oh, don't sulk. Come here,” he beckoned. I just stared at him, still not able to believe this madness.  
“Come here. Tell me what you want to do to me now.”  
Okay, _that_ he could have. “Do to you?” I growled. I stalked up to him.  
“Do to you?” I pushed him in the chest. His eyes found mine again.  
“I will rip your shirt off.” I did rip his jacket and shirt open, spattering buttons. He just smirked.  
“Rip your clothes off and bind you with their shreds.” Push. “Tie you up, gag you with your tie, bind your hands, spread your legs wide open.”  
I pushed harder. He stumbled back.  
“Tie your legs to the bed.” I shoved. He toppled onto the bed. I knelled beside him on the bedspread, one knee on his stomach.  
“When you can't move no more, I'll cut you. Cut that bloody smirk out off your face. Cut your nipples off. Cut your stomach open, gut you like a fish. Dissect your nerves and cut them one by one. You'll learn whole new levels of pain. I'll do it slowly. Oh – so – slowly.” Shoving my knee in his stomach with each of the last words.  
I realised he was hard. Bloody pervert. But then again, I was too. Hard and panting, the pure thought of gutting him, feeling his blood flow over my hands, hearing his cries and whimpers giving me a rush.  
“There's just one problem,” he said, breath coming a bit quicker, eyes even more a-glitter. “I still have your knives.”  
I felt a stinging at my ankle. The bastard had cut me, just slightly, just the tiniest breaking of skin.  
Anger flashed red behind my eyes. I roared. Wrestling him down, my whole weight put upon him, I grabbed his wrist, trying to pry the knife away from his hand – just to feel the other blade pressed into my groin. Oh Basher, Basher, you really aren't up to your best tonight.  
“Tut, tut, so much force,” the smirking madman chided, pushing his hips up against my cock. Still hard, both of us. He chuckled. “Roar, Tiger, roar.”  
He pushed up again, rolled his hips. I couldn't keep from gasping. That was not going according to plan at all.

His smirk vanished. “Let go or I _will_ cut you!”  
I pushed up to my knees, glowering at him, but feeling a bit dazed. Probably not very intimidating.  
He set up as well, shedding jacket, tie and torn shirt, shifting the knives from one hand to another. He took one in the right hand and let it wander across my scars. It felt warm from being worn close to the body, first mine, then his.  
“Not raping me, huh?” I asked.  
Both eyebrows shot up at that. “You want to go? Then by all means, go.” He went off the bed to look out off the window. “Well, what are you waiting for? Go!”  
Waiting for my brain to kick in, most likely. Why wasn't I up and going?  
“Feeling at a loss, Tiger?”  
Stop calling me that, I didn't say.  
“Feeling scared?”  
“I'm not scared!” It didn't came out very convincing.  
He chuckled, examined his nails. “But you are. Scared that you want to hurt my so baldy but can't bring yourself to do so, to _really_ hurt me, and you don't know why. Scared that you want me to hurt you _so much_.”  
“Bullshit!”  
“Really now?” He came nearer again, one blade in hand. Where was the other?  
He crawled onto the bed in slow, languid movements.  
“Then why are you still HERE?”  
Yeah, why indeed?  
He straddled my hips, his crotch pressed to mine, and started to rock slowly up and down. He lowered the knife to my throat. Where _was_ the other one? The rocking got distracting.  
“Why don't you just shove me away and go?”  
The blade whispered along my neck, up my cheek and down to my chin. Almost black eyes followed the movement. He kept rocking. Smirking again. Still in his suit trousers.  
“Come on, fierce Tiger. Push me away, overpower me.” The knife went down to my throat again, pushing in harder, but not breaking skin. Not yet.  
“Tiger, Tiger, show me your strength.” His breath came harsher now, his voice a chiding whisper.  
Up and down his arse went, riding my cock, up and down, rubbing the fabric of his trousers against my length, grinding his erection against me, twisting, writhing, faster now...  
My wits, what little was left of them, scattered completely. I let my head fall to the pillow. The knife followed, keeping contact to my skin. I rolled my own hips, pushed back into him, drawing a moan out of his mocking mouth.  
“Tiger!” The word was a gasp. His body suddenly went rigid. The knife slid along my throat, cut in, let a drop of blood well – sending me over the edge.  
I was still coming when he whispered “You made me soil my pants.” He drew the knife across my neck and shoulder, breaking skin deliberately this time, the pain silvery sharp.

…

“Really, Sebastian, where were your wits tonight?” Moriarty was dressing, having cleaned himself perfunctory with my shirt. Of course. Somehow he'd managed to get not one drop of my come on his trousers. Of bloody course. He'd even thought of a spare shirt, because he thought of everything. “You didn't have that much beer. Hardly any. I've watched you.”  
I lay on my stomach, hugging a pillow, body still humming from orgasm, from pain. The cut on my left shoulder was deep and burned with my sweat - yet another scar, but the first one that was his.  
“I don't know, Boss. You had me by surprise,” I admitted. “Didn't expect you to wield a gun into my face.” Not the way we usually played.  
“And walking around London with a rifle like that...” He shook his head and had the indecency to sound disappointed.  
“Um, you asked me to?”  
“Hmmm, and maybe I made a little deal with Bill back at the pub, too. Maybe it wasn't just beer. Maybe.”  
Wanker. But I couldn't really bring myself to care either way. Not now.  
“But seriously, you let your guard down. You're becoming negligent. If you are that sloppy on the job, you're dead, Sebastian.”  
Yeah, thanks for the reminder. “And you wouldn't shed a tear, would you? What with me being replaceable and all?”  
Jim squatted next to the bed and ran his hand through my hair. “Stupid Tiger,” he chided softly.  
If I were a tiger, he'd make me purr. Not that I tell him that. Ever.  
“Don't be that stupid on the job.” His hand trailed down my neck, lightly touching his mark on my shoulder, admiring his work.  
“'kay, Boss,” I mumbled. Sleeping would be nice now. Let him pet me to sleep.  
“Sleepy Tiger,” Jim murmured, and I could hear the smile in his voice. “You can rest now. Just let me get you patched up first.”


End file.
